Tuesday, March 31, 2015

Todo lo que me queda

20 years ago I was in the "front yard" of my "house," helping my mom take out the grocery bags from her black Jeep. Mom was blasting the radio-- a lifelong habit of hers-- and that's when I heard the news of my childhood role model, not just dying, but getting murdered.
No more Selena.
I remember I was bent over the door, reaching for a grocery bag, hearing the news, then just staying there, frozen-- my upper body in the Jeep, my legs limp and hanging out. A limp little 10 year old, body half-hanging out of a Jeep, whose face was surrounded by plastic, brown "Lucky's" grocery shopping bags. That was me.
I didn't cry, I did my typical thing where I'm so shocked by bad news, I just repeat what I heard... but I lack the ability to emote anything... just... I just repeat what I've been told. It isn't until hours later that I react with rage or tears... or my (ridiculously histrionic but) uncontrollable fainting spells.

I hate stereotypes for the most part, and especially perpetuating them... but this is one of which I am unapologetically guilty.
I love Selena.
I loved Selena when she was alive, and I suffered when she died.
I tried to emulate her style, I listened to her music on loop... I annoyed the fucking shit out of my entire family with my fandom.

I loved her because she was hilarious. She was kind. She was talented. She was daring. She did NOT look like anyone else. She was curvaceous and was not ashamed of it... she rocked that shit. Her smile lit up any room, and warmed any cold heart. She was a Mexican-American girl. She was someone I could aspire to be... because, well, she was someone more similar to my background than any other celebrity of the time.

Of my family, I'm the one who looks the least like anyone else. As a kid, I'd look at my features and wonder where the fuck they came from. My siblings would always be told shit like "Oh my god! D looks identical to her great grandmother! That porcelain skin! The dimples! Those huge eyes! Gorgeous!" or "Rafa's just as handsome as his *male relative of some sort*" whenever a person in Hometown would bump into us after not seeing us for a while. What would I get? "Oh... look at you!" Just that. Nothing more.
Hometowners value light skin, light eyes, light hair color, fine noses... anything European... like, Eastern European. My type of Mexicans are the taller, blonder Mexicans, since my part of Mexico was settled by blonder Europeans than other parts (oh boy, the complicated nature of this conversation... but I'm sure my genetic results give you some sort of idea:

... since apparently I'm such an exotic mess). They're not particularly keen on the darker folks/features... and they don't care to be polite about it, either.
I was a tall, dark-skinned, super-dark eyed, brown-haired, flat-nosed (the bridge of my nose didn't become prominent until some time in high school), thick-lipped chubby girl (well, the chub didn't win until 3rd grade. Prior to that, I was a lanky tall kid)... Hometowners had no qualms about letting me know how ugly that shit was.

Then here comes Selena... and she celebrates that shit... OTHERS celebrate with her.
I felt normal. I had hope that hey, when I grow up, I can be just as pretty as this wonderful, talented chick. Thick lips are pretty, thick thighs are fine, and morenas are beautiful.
AnoMALIE, you will be ok.

And then she gets killed... by her "friend."
Yeah... tis life.

Sunday, March 29, 2015

Se convirtieron en pesadillas

Two nights in a row, it has been two nights in a row that he makes an appearance... and they're all nightmares... terrifying dreams where I can feel myself struggling to wake up, attempting to end the torture.

I have no fucking clue why my mind has turned on me like this... I now can't even rest in my dreams.

Tuesday, March 24, 2015

hand holding

On Sunday Mom asked me a few questions about Saturday's Mass which I attended alone.
"I don't remember," was my response to all of her questions.
"Then why do you go to church?" she asked.
"Because you make me," I responded.
"Well, that's bad. You should go because it's in your heart," she said.
"I know, but what can I say? It's the truth," I said.

Today, I attended confessionals because yes, Mom pretty much forced me, but also because I haven't done this little ritual in probably over a year... I'm not sure, I don't remember. I figured it'd be good therapy... if all went well.
I haven't had the best of luck during these things... I've been chastised the majority of the time, which frustrates me, because... how am I supposed to feel better when I get lectures like:
Priest: Why are you socially anxious? Do you feel like you're not good enough?
Me: Yes. Sometimes. Since I was a kid.
P: Do you believe God made you the way you are?
Me: Umm... y...es? More of a society thing, I guess?
P: But do you believe that God created us?
Me: ... Yeah?
P: And knowing this, you still feel you're less than everyone else? You think he made someone--YOU--imperfect?
Me: ... uh...
P: You're offending God by saying YOU'RE imperfect. By believing you're less than someone else. You're offending him, saying he messed up.
Me: ... Oh...

Then there's that time I got the glare from hell with the priest telling me I was a criminal... that felt fantastic and made me want to be the best Catholic alive (sarcasm there).

This time around, I was sweating bullets... sweat literally dripping from my pits down to my elbows.
Before the eight priests took their different spots around church, we had to sit through a half-hour sermon from some evangelical catholic man... who, not gonna lie, was pretty fucking great at the whole public speaking gig.
What was the speech about? Suicide.
I sat there trying not to behave like a criminal whose standing in front of a hoard of cops.
WTF... who spoke to this guy? WHO HAS BEEN READING MY BLOG?!
(again, I'm just joking here. I know it was a coincidence... but it was weird as shit, this coincidence)
So, after half an hour of listening to this well-spoken, charismatic man, I decided I was going to come clean to whichever priest I got as my confessor. I'd go ahead and tell him about this recent bout with depression and the numerous times suicidal thoughts crossed my mind.
If I get banished, oh well. Just as long as I don't get a glare from hell... or that fucking stupid "MAN UP!" speech, I'll be good.

While I was initially nervous as fuck as I took my spot in line for my favorite priest (the one who a few years back scared me/made me crack the fuck up when he forgot to turn off his mic after Mass and wound up saying "FUCK YOU!" to his homie who was making him laugh. The laughs/curse word echoed through the church thunderously. From that moment, I knew this dude was my people).
Then the savages began entering church-- late. The manner in which some Latinos (especially when in large groups) turn into complete blockheads when given instructions-- how they decide to just... blatantly ignore them-- drives me berserk. My nervousness turned to frustration... and once a cunt who was no taller than 5 feet tall PUSHED me from behind into a bench, I damn near turned violent.
But I relaxed. Somehow, I managed to relax.

As I told the priest my issues, he was calm... and then he did something that... I don't really know how to describe the feeling or the shit that ran through my mind... but... he just... randomly held my hand. Just. Fucking. Randomly. As I kept yapping away.
He released my hand and gave me some council... and after that, I continued yapping some more.
Then he held my hand in the same gentle fashion a second time... and then a third... and then once it was time to go, he gently squeezed my hand for a fourth time.

As previously stated, I have no clue how to describe what exactly I felt... like... in my chest cavity. It was... like... it was... confusion... relief... tenderness... it was... I don't know.
He didn't need to touch my hand... I don't think a priest ever has physically reached out to me during a confession. And the tenderness he did it with... it was... I wanted to cry and smile at the same time.
I'm sure he saw the confusion in my face... because I was puzzled as shit... no way someone would have NOT noticed.

All I could think was "He is... literally holding my hand through this... someone is holding my hand through this... I was just complaining about no one ever taking the time to hold my hand through tough times... getting scolded for 'NEEDING' someone to give me a hand... but now someone's... holding my hand."
The thought made me want to shed every last tear in my ducts... but also smile...
Since this was WAY too public for me to burst into tears, the only thing I found myself doing was smiling... I smiled. A smile with relief I had not felt in a very long time.

It may sound stupid... it may get scoffs out of people... I may be judged... or mocked... but... it just... shows how something as simple and insignificant as holding someone's hand can just... change shit.
He didn't know about my rant... I never mentioned it... but his kind gesture just... meant more to me than anything he could have said.

Hands-- they've punched me, slapped me, pinched me, choked me, pushed me... yet I've always liked them, they've always been my favorite feature on people. They can-- and they have-- hurt me so much, but their ability to heal me is... indescribable.

A gentle, caring touch-- that is more important to me, more meaningful... than any fucking amount of money I could ever posses... more than any trip to any foreign country, more than anything material I could ever be given.
A simple, gentle, supportive touch-- priceless, absolutely priceless. 

Sunday, March 22, 2015

Color blind

Your world is in vivid color... greens, golds, blues, reds... so many colors.
Sounds decorate your memories-- rain gently pouring outside at night, birds chirping, leaves rustling.
Then it all goes blank.
You see without really seeing, you hear without really hearing... you live without really living.
You might as well be walking alone through dust and rubble after a violent explosion... shellshocked as fuck.

For me, depression makes me live in a silent black and white film.
I can't really remember the last few months, to tell the truth-- nothing really stands out... it's all a giant, meaningless blur.

Then suddenly warmth beings to creep back into the picture.
Suddenly, I can feel the sun on my skin, feel the breeze swirl thought my hair... I can see light once again illuminating my world.
Just as randomly as the sadness entered my life, "feeling" is once again making a presence. Of course, "life" isn't returning to me with the same velocity as it randomly decided to leave me... but it sure feels good to once again notice color in my memories, to regain the ability to feel warmth-- as slow as the progress may be.

It has been rough... so. fucking. rough.

Tuesday, March 17, 2015

Piece by piece

Damn it, I've tried updating since the last post, but can't seem to bring myself to finish my thoughts. I started my first draft within hours of posting that last entry, but held off on posting because it was dark as fuck. Many other drafts followed, but they all seemed to follow that formula-- starts cheery and fine, then some word gets stuck in my head and things turn bleak real quick.
Take this post for example, which ALMOST made it but... I killed it because I think I had to go somewhere and my mind just turned off:

Prior to my last post's angry spiel, I had actually been doing better.
Despite the rage I felt at the moment, I woke up the next morning completely fine.
Now? I'm good. Sure, I've had moments of sadness, but my mood/emotional health has been going in an upward trend. It's a very spotty recovery. I notice an improvement in my mental/emotional health, but there will be small hiccups along the way where I just fucking lose my shit for a few hours... or days.
I still think I'd rather feel rage than sadness... although I think my anger's going to kill me one day after I suffer a fucking stroke/aneurism (apparently I'm genetically predisposed to that shit... suddenly dropping dead from a fit before age 40, so say my genetic tests. Ain't that shocking? [no, no it's not] LUCKILY, if I actually make it past that window of sudden death, I'll live to suffer into my 100's. 2085... fuck that shit. Silly genes).
Episodes like these-- where others seem to lack the ability to empathize with me, and instead get angry with me-- happen often.

This whole "going out" thing isn't always a stressful thing for me-- it more than often IS, but there are people with whom I have no problems hanging out.

It's not that I WANT people to "hold my hand" through anything-- something that is often thrown in my face. "I can't hold your hand through it, AnoMALIE!" people have scolded me... and I bite my tongue so as to not scream back "That's the fucking problem-- NO ONE has ever held my hand THROUGH SHIT." If anything, I've spent my life trying to find my way through things on my damn own. The time anyone has ever held my hand through something was Kelley with college. I had NO CLUE what to do... and the folks who were SUPPOSED to, the ones who are PAID to help (counselors) were giving me the cold shoulder (or doing worse shit like my high school counselor who gave me the "you should be happy you're even graduating! Now go plan your... what do your people call it? 'Fiesta'?" speech... you know, because the fact that I was the student with most AP courses under my belt-- all but one passed with an A-- in school wasn't indicative of me doing my damn best to not only graduate, but to make high school my fucking bitch). But Kelley very patiently and diligently held my hand through the entire four years, not once throwing it in my face about how clingy and needy I might have been. She understood I had NO CLUE what to do or where to go, being the first person in my family to venture into college... you know, since both my parents only went up to sixth grade... in Mexico. Kelley understood how fucking clueless I was, and helped.
I'm not going at this thing on my own because I WANT to be alone, it's because I've been FORCED to go at it alone. It's not like I'm sitting here slapping the helpful hands away from me, claiming I can do this on my own, it's that no one EXTENDS that helping hand. Perhaps they think I can handle anything, or they simply don't give a shit if I need help... the fact remains, NO ONE is helping me... I'm doing it on my own.
That fucking shit is taxing as fuck... and so, you get this end result, where I suffer anxiety and mental breakdowns from which it takes fucking months to recover.

ANYWAY, that was a huge tangent.
Back to the point I'm trying to make.
There are friends who can grasp this concept... of me being absolutely horrified by the thought of being thrown into a huge social event on my own. They do their best to keep me from suffering from the shock and anxiety this scene will cause me, and so, they "hold my hand" and guide me towards a small circle of people who are equally kind and understanding, and eventually, make me feel at ease. This results in me being absolutely normal, often ENJOYING the event, and even acquiring new friends.
But then there are my "friends" whose circle of friends isn't exactly composed of the nicest bunch of folk... those are the bigger problem here.
"Then why do you surround yourself with these people?"
Well... I am in that circle because... they are my family. I see first hand how they treat others... I hear them mock others, embarrass others... be absolute monsters to others... and it scares me, because I know I can possibly be on the receiving end of that shit one day (well, fuck, often times I HAVE been on that end... most of my grade school years were spent on the abused side). It's why I'm suspicious and uncomfortable around others... I have seen how nasty others can be, so I'm never fully comfortable. It's why normal people have difficulty understanding where I'm coming from.
"Why is this chick so fucking paranoid and uncomfortable around people?!" Uhhh... because I know how fucking terrible people can be, and I prefer not to put myself in harm's way.
"Then get away from THOSE people." Bro, they're my family, I can't exactly do that. And thanks to this family, I KNOW there are people capable of this behavior... it's a fucking ripple effect-- my family member's a douchebag, then he finds two more non-related douchebags, then those douchebags somehow find two other douchebags... then sooner than later we have an entire room full of mean fucking douchebags... that fucking behavior's contagious. 
That's where it ends.
I can't find the correct way to express myself clearly. I no longer know if I WANT to explain myself.
It's difficult to explain the reasoning behind my behavior... it makes me feel stupid and weak.
And it makes me angry... so fucking angry.
The ease with which people invalidate my feelings and my actions... simultaneously saddens me and infuriates me.
The manner in which some people suggest I "fix" my problem just... makes me laugh, maniacally sometimes, because... because it doesn't fucking work that way, at least not for me. It's not as fucking easy as they think it is.
I'm 30... you honestly think I haven't TRIED to be fucking normal? The vast majority of my life has been spent with me WISHING to be just that--normal... average.
Most of the time, whenever I've "tried," I've had shit happen to me that only agitated the PTSD I've acquired over the last... 25 years or so.

But enough about that. I'm still ok. Sure, I have my bad moments, but as a whole, I'd say I'm improving.
The suicidal thoughts are mostly gone... now I'll only occasionally wonder shit like what my lifeless body will look like... some day, not in the near future, of course. That's a vast improvement from two months ago, where I was... well, I won't get into that either... but it was definitely the worst, absolute worst case I've ever handled.

I'll sit and wonder what exactly triggered this very ugly downward spiral, and I can't exactly pinpoint what it was... but my best guess is the whole introspective shit I did on my final days in Athens. Taking mental inventory of my life was rough AS FUCK. I didn't think I could be so fucking mean to myself.
But I'm getting better. Will I go back to being the old me? Hell no. That chick died a very fucking long time ago... like, people worked REALLY hard to destroy all trace of that kind, timid girl (you know what feels very fucking weird? The moment where a piece of you dies-- you can seriously feel it. It's indescribable. But it happens. It's so noticeable. Uncontrollable. You never really knew the piece existed until it suddenly disappears, like a balloon getting popped by a sharp needle). But maybe I'll be able to crack a smile once in a while... not spend so much time staring off into space, wondering dark shit. I'll converse on occasion.

But really, I'm just hoping I can smile effortlessly, sincerely... people take that ability for granted.

Tuesday, March 10, 2015

But it's me!

You know what really fucking works me up? People who don't fucking "get it," people who don't even bother to empathize one single fucking bit with my... way.
I hate people getting pissed at me because I have difficulty being social.
I hate how some people think it's SO FUCKING easy to just go out and socialize.
I ESPECIALLY hate it when this person is someone who has seen me ACTIVELY attempt being social, only to be fucking humiliated or publicly insulted in some way. They see this fucking shit go down and STILL not empathize.

"Maybe it's all in your head... ?" some people have told me.
All in my head... really? I really just imagine people talking shit about my clothes or my voice or my smile or... my personality? REALLY? I just fucking imagine a guy screaming "Dyke!" into my face at a party because I push away his physical advances? For reals? Like... he might have been screaming "BIKE!" at me instead and my mind just misconstrued it all? For reals? This is all conjured by my fucking imagination because I fucking like it or some shit?
I swear I fucking try, and I try HARD to socialize and not be fucking awkward... but goddamn it! It's motherfucking hard as fuck! And PARDON ME for refusing to subject myself to the motherfucking torture that it is to try and be... "social" with fucking strangers every once in a while. Goddamn. My fucking bad. How motherfucking selfish of me. FUCK!

"Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. But it's me!" ... Yeah, it's you. And I don't know how fucking drunk you've been the other times we've chilled... but I always come home from the events and cry my fucking eyes out because someone did or said something to me that seriously hurt my feelings... or made do something stupid, or made me feel fucking stupid... or worse yet, made me feel fucking invisible... or gross. I mean, if I wanted to be fucking invisible, I just would have stayed home and painted the night away, out of everyone's view... at least then I'd be comfortable/relaxed/not going deaf with the fucking shitty music played at hipster bars.
I don't fucking like the vibe. I don't fucking like drinking. I think people are fucking rude and I'm too aggro to put up with their fucking shit for more than ten minutes.
It DRAINS ME. It makes me UNCOMFORTABLE. People DON'T LIKE ME... and when they DO, they get too pushy on me, which only results on me stiff-arming the shit out of them so they can cut their shit out, and THEN they proceed to hate me.

Don't ACT like you've "tried" fixing me... because hanging out with me for fiteen minutes at a six-hour-long party doesn't fucking count-- it doesn't even scratch the surface, those fucking fifteen minutes. What can I tell you in fifteen minutes? What can you conclude in fifteen minutes? That I'm shy? That I'm uncomfortable? That I'm sad and distant? You'll maybe notice the latter, but will be too uncomfortable discussing, so you will just ignore it... but ohhh man! You fucking tried! Bravo. Fucking bravo.

Go ahead, make me feel guilty. Go ahead and chastise me. Go ahead and make me feel like a horrible fucking person because I refuse to participate in an activity that leaves me feeling lonelier and stupider and uglier once I'm done. Go on, now. Go on and vent your fucking frustration with me and ACT like you know anything about me. Act like you know where the fuck I'm coming from.

People who try to "fix" me with some sort of "man up!" speech deserve a punch in the mouth. A motherfucking punch to the teeth with a brick.

Goddamn. People make me feel like shit.

Saturday, March 7, 2015

my zebra

For the love of god...
When things are going shitty, they sure fucking just love piling up.

Today, as I was forcing myself to be a fucking NORMAL human being who smiles and cracks jokes, I stepped out of the gym at 3:30pm to see some stupid fucking cunt scratched the shit out of the left side of my car with her shitty excuse for parking/pulling out.
The worst part is I know this fucking cunt-- I work out with her.

God, please don't let me see her again... much less her fucking white piece of shit car... 'cause I'm gonna FUCK. SHIT. UP.
Fucking piece of shit white Nissan wrecking the side of a car three times as expensive... THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?! And what pissed me off worst was that the motherfucking parking lot was EMPTY... and I parked far as fuck, too... precisely to avoid any dumb motherfuckers parking next to me.
But no. This dumb cunt felt the urge to park next to my car, so close it scratched the entire front left side, leaving white horizontal lines across my car's dark chocolate paint job. Fucking infuriating.
(If you do this, rest assured I fucking hate your stupid guts. HATE them)

So fucking angry, I just know I'm going to be passing out tomorrow (I mean, eight hours later and I'm still fucking fuming about it).
I hate people.

Thursday, March 5, 2015


Great news, guys! I'm feeling bet... nope, I'm still feeling pretty fucking shitty.
I'm still crying a lot.
I'm still taking "time outs" where I have to stop whatever the fuck I'm doing and just sit down and breathe in deeply... without thinking about ANYTHING. No thoughts. Can't think anything... because whatever I think about makes me cry and feel shitty.

I'm fucked up. Like, REALLY fucking fucked up.
The worst part is that I can't seem to get a firm grip on things. I'll be good for about 36 hours and then my emotions go fucking haywire and I go back to being so fucked up, I cry anytime, anywhere-- it can be while I sit at church, while I stand in the produce section of the grocery store, or while I'm working out, I'll find myself struggling to keep my tears at bay. I'll feel like fucking garbage and somehow manage to mentally abuse myself to the point where I'm convinced I'm fucking garbage, so I'll be crying in my car to save strangers the awkward scene of a grown person crying as she stares at some carrots.

Miserable. Absolutely motherfucking miserable.

Sunday, March 1, 2015

One word

If I had to describe this decade I now leave behind with only one word, it would be this:

The end.